No Longer in Service
by JustEight
Summary: Bruce begins to lose what's most important to him and all anyone can do is watch. Bruce-centric with a side of Robins.


Written for my tumblr, but felt like double posting for shits n giggles.

Enjoy~ With any luck, there will be further chapters.

* * *

It was subtle, but if he had to pick a turning point, it was after Alfred passed. It had been hard for everyone then; a concrete wall they'd all depended on had vanished and many things they'd taken for granted had needed relearning: cooking, cleaning, and wound treating being the tip of the iceberg. The list was endless, the brave butler's loss far from done being felt.

Maybe that's why he hadn't noticed initially, he'd been blaming it all on Alfred and his absence. The utility belt not being restocked, files being left out and lost: all little things he'd stifled outward frustration over, corrected, and moved on.

The scare had come an early morning in late October. Damian had an exam the following day and had been left behind for patrol that evening. Nothing too strange, Bruce was used to working alone and the boy was growing up, college just around the corner.

That night, a couple of thieves had been caught and an amateur smuggling ring was convinced that perhaps another career choice was in order- not a grand evening, but a productive one, he supposed.

After mentally calling it a night, his visor's battery run down (had he forgotten to charge it again?), it was with a jolt of confusion that Bruce realized he had no idea what street he was on, where in Gotham he was in comparison to… anything.

_But this is my city, my home, how can I not—_

Looking up and around, he scanned for a landmark, a building, anything he could recognize. He'd been running these streets for nearly 35 years; each and every crevice was known to him unless some villain blasted a new one. So where was he…?

It'd come to him, it always did. Shooting up a line, Bruce felt his shoulder groan as the force yanked him up, the familiar thump of his stomach slamming down as he flew through the air. Up and up, he stumbled some as the edge finally reached him, but overall was able to make a clean landing. High up, more landmarks—this would help. And so he perched, waiting for it to come back to him.

It was 11:28 AM when he finally found himself on Wayne Manor's steps.

* * *

The moment past, it was quickly forgotten as a new case arose, festered, and was dismissed, the perpetrator caught and returned to Arkham.

So then why was he downtown when it was still light out?

Blue hues rolled , left to right; he knew where he was but… he _didn't_. There was something familiar about the set of buildings. But why was he here—hadn't the case been solved?

"Oracle," a hand rose to his ear, planning on opening a comm—

Nothing.

Calloused palms fell to his face—his face? Where was the cowl? Glancing down, he found Bruce, not Batman, standing in his place. So he was Bruce right now? Why was Bruce in the city? Pulling up his wrist, he'd hoped for the watch he always wore, but only bare skin leered back up at him.

Phone, he needed a phone.

A couple people, women, waved at him—what would Bruce do? Flirt? Before he could make up his mind, they'd already moved on and he was reminded—he still didn't have a phone in hand. He was downtown, maybe a payphone? Spinning on heel, he looked, but there was nothing—

_Cell phone, Bruce. You've had one for years_.

Groaning, he shoved hands into all the pockets he could find, finally removing the device and staring at it blankly. Who was he supposed to call? Why was he calling?

Right, he needed to go home.

Before he could stop them, fingers dialed the most familiar number they could remember, bringing the receiver to his ear.

"_The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in ser—"_

What? But Alfred—

_Oh._

Right.

Taking a breath, ignoring the increasing number of stares, Bruce cleared the screen, opening up his contacts instead, scrolling down. Who to call, who could help.

_Bruce Wayne doesn't ask for help—I don't need—_

His son, his son could help.

So he dialed his son's number, replaced the receiver at his ear, waited.

Before long, static reached his ear, a signal someone had answered, but no words fell through. There was the tumble of sheets and a breathy groan as it appeared the owner had finally remembered there was a person on the other end.

"_Shi—_Hello?"

He shifted his weight, set his jaw, relaxation settling his muscles as the sleep-slurred voice triggered memories, warmth spreading down his spine. "Afternoon."

There was a pause on the other end, realization kicking in. "Bruce? What's up, you don't usually call me on this number. Everything okay?"

Okay? Was he okay? He didn't feel any pain, no open wounds. But something was off, he was sure of it. But what? It was with a deep set frustration that Bruce finally spoke up, the Batman gravel seeping in, "Not sure."

Another pause took over the line, the person shifting more fabric, sounding more awake the next time Bruce hears him, concern laced in. "What do you mean you're not sure?"

Bruce swapped the cell phone to his other hand, gaze soaking up his surroundings. Why had he called again? Before he could come up with an answer, his son cut off his thoughts. "Doesn't matter, I'll come to you. You in the cave?"

Cave, home, base. That's not where he was, he was in Gotham. The cave was in Gotham, and he was in Gotham, but not in the cave. "Y-No."

Bruce heard feet shuffling on the other end—_bad form, have to reteach later—_"Okay, then where are you?"

"I don't know."

Third pause, "Okay, uh… I'll have Babs track you down. Just stay where you are, alright?"

Easing himself down to a bench, Bruce nodded. "I'll be fine, Damian, I'll have Alfred send a car over."

Silence exploded from the phone, what felt like minutes ticking by. "Bruce… it's Dick. And… you know that Alf…"

Bruce's brow furrowed, observing a line of weeds pulling themselves up from the cement sidewalk. Alfred was better than this. "My son… I called my son."

Suddenly there was lots of movement from the other line, a door slamming, then another, a car door. Worry was caked into each word, "Okay, Bruce… okay. I'll be there soon. Don't move."

"Fine, Tim."

The line went dead, Bruce shut the phone, set it in his lap. Moments later, he picked it up again, dialing.

"_The number you have dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service._"

What was taking Alfred so long?


End file.
